Sorry seems to be the hardest word
by ColoursNeverSeen
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, contains spoilers. Sherlock is gone... until he needs a favour from his brother. They have more to say to each other than they thought. Mycroft-centric.


_**Sorry**__** seems to be the hardest word**_

The guilt lingered, and from time to time he would feel a more painful wave of pain running through his chest, as if someone was taking pleasure in repeatedly shooting him, leaving breaks in-between the torture sessions. He should know, torture sessions were not uncommon in his line of work.

The feeling of guilt, however, and the obsession that went with it, images of his brother flashing before his eyes when he least expected it, were not sensations he was accustomed to.

As a very smart man, he didn't make mistakes often. But recently he had made one, the kind that you can't forget in the blink of an eye because the consequences that go with them are much too big.

Surely he should have known better than to let himself get caught in the Spider's web. But his sense of duty at the moment, his vague desire for childish revenge – one he couldn't even understand if he really thought about it – and his own vanity got much stronger than his reasonable intellect. He told Moriarty everything he wanted to hear, and they all paid the price.

oOo

Drinking glass after glass of strong alcohol (scotch, brandy, whatever) became a habit. Well, at least now the considerable amount of money that being a member of the club cost him was worth it. When John came to visit him for the second time, he realised how much they had changed, how much darker they had become, the both of them.

But soon after that encounter, his worries ended. Because he was indeed a very smart man. That's why he knew his brother wasn't dead. One look at the report was enough.

oOo

A few days passed, and the morning of the funeral came. Black suit, black tie, and well, his umbrella was black anyway. The car was waiting for him; he was about to leave when the phone in his pocket vibrated, the sound that went with it partly silenced by the contact with the fabric. Text alert.

'_You can stop celebrating, Mycroft.'_

The text wasn't signed, unlike Sherlock's usual way, but whom else could it be, if not his brother? He knew it was him, he could almost feel it.

Another text alert.

'_But you knew that already, didn't you?'_

The number was unknown; it obviously wasn't Sherlock's usual phone. He didn't even have the time to start answering the first two messages before his phone rang for the third time.

'_And don't even think about bothering Molly. She doesn't know where I am.'_

oOo

He knew there was definitely something wrong in the reports, and at the funeral he could see what the text meant.

Observation skills weren't only Sherlock's area. In fact, he was slightly better at that game. Playing his own act of mourning didn't stop him from looking at the rest of them - closely. They were all really in pain (John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade), really saying goodbye – except for Molly Hooper. For a woman who had had such a crush on Sherlock for years, her eyes weren't red. There were no tears on the handkerchief, no deeper lines of shock and devastation on her face. But if she couldn't tell him more than what he already knew, there was indeed no point in bothering her. After all, she had helped, and he supposed he should be grateful for that.

The look of deep resentment on John's face was the worst thing to bear. That, and convincing his mother that there was no point in her coming to the funeral, what with her age and the distance. Even to her, he couldn't tell the truth. He had to be the pragmatic, cold, heartless son - always. At least he was used to it.

oOo

He waited for the next text. It didn't come. He tried tracing the number, but found nothing. Of course Sherlock would have thrown the phone away. It was strange, he had always considered his life as lonely, and accepted it easily enough, but now he felt even more so, and perhaps it was a bit too much.

At some point, he considered buying a dog. But then, he'd be a lonely man with a dog. He didn't see himself talking to an animal to pretend he had company. He still preferred to be a lonely man on his own.

oOo

Almost a year passed. Winter was back again, bringing snow with it. People rejoiced; all he could think about was that the traffic was being slowed down.

He had always been a light sleeper. So when the text alert came in the middle of the night, he was wide awake before the sound had vanished.

There were no words, just a picture. Sherlock's grave, covered in snow. He thought quickly. It could only have been taken since the day before, by somebody who had his number.

He got ready in five minutes and left his house.

oOo

So he was a lonely man walking in the snow, but without a dog. Oh well, he had his umbrella. Far less noisy, far more useful (and a lot safer on the hygiene side).

He remained in front of the grave on his own for fifteen minutes or so, leaning on the umbrella, which tip was planted in the snow. The stone was clean, fresh flowers had been brought recently. Probably John and Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's remaining admirers wouldn't go as far as cleaning.

He heard the light footsteps approach before the deep, low and familiar voice reached his ears. And only then did he realise exactly how much he had missed it.

'Another diet, it would seem. Looks like this one was successful.'

'Interesting you should think so. I haven't been dieting,' Mycroft replies, still not turning around.

'You didn't answer my texts.' He can hear Sherlock's footsteps getting closer.

'Would you have answered back?' This time he does turn around.

'Oh, were you afraid of being rejected?' Sherlock asks, the mockery evident behind his seemingly surprised tone. 'I wonder why...'

'I made a mistake,' he says, almost detaching every syllable as he speaks. 'But you know why I did it.'

'I can see why your twisted mind would think you had a legitimate reason to do it, yes, if that's what you mean.'

'Sherlock, please... I said I was sorry, and I meant it.'

'You never said you were sorry. I'm afraid you must have imagined it.'

Mycroft pressed his lips together, finding it harder that usual to stare into his brother's eyes, trying to win their glaring contest as he usually did. Maybe today he didn't want to compete.

'I told John... I thought he had the time to...'

'He didn't.'

'Well, I am sorry. It's the truth.'

'But not dissatisfied.'

'What do you mean?'

'You're rid of Moriarty now, we all are. Somehow you must know that what you did drove him to his death, so you must be pleased. I can't see how the contrary could be possible.'

'I won't deny that, but...'

'I know you, Mycroft.'

'Not as well as you think.'

'Oh you'd love to believe that.'

'I don't believe it, I know it. Although to be more accurate, you do know me, but you choose to remain entirely oblivious to the elements that don't fit the image of me you created years ago and refuse to alter. You can't argue with that,' he added as Sherlock was about to snap something contradictory, 'so please stop being childish and let's come to the point. Why are you here?'

'I need money.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You said that before, Mycroft, I get the message.'

'Don't start Sherlock, you're in no position to play games with me. Why now?'

'Because I need money.'

'Why _only _now? How much money did you have?'

'Enough. Well, that and the fact that my cover got blown up in Spain, and I unfortunately don't have contact with intelligence officers there, so...'

'So?'

'So...'

'Say it, Sherlock. I'd love to hear it.'

'I need your help.'

Mycroft's lips twist upwards, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

'Why now?'

'I told you.'

No, I mean why now and not _before_? I could have helped you, you know I would have.'

'Well you didn't exactly prove useful when it came to Moriarty before, did you?'

'Faking your death, Sherlock! Escaping, running away... Did you seriously think you could fool me?'

'I seriously thought I didn't need you.'

'And you do now, obviously.'

'I said I needed your help, not you.'

'Oh, please! And this is the way you think you're going to get it, my precious help?'

'I think you have no reason not to give it to me, so it's unlikely that you won't.'

The two men stared, or rather glared at each other for a moment, before Mycroft lowered his gaze, a small, entirely joyless smile forming on his lips once more.

'You never apologise to me,' Mycroft stated.

'What?'

'Your friends, you apologise to them when you've been too rude, too dramatic, too _you_. But not to me, never. You're always in the right, and I'm always in the wrong, always.'

'That's not true.'

'Isn't it? Think.'

'I don't think you're the one who needs an apology.'

'You've had mine, it would be fair game.'

'And you want me to apologise for what, exactly?'

'Do you really want me to make a list? I don't have all day.'

'Then get to the point.'

'For years you've thought and repeatedly implied that I was made of steel, heartless, that I couldn't possibly care. It's the only thing that ever truly bothered me. But you never saw that, did you?'

He couldn't look at Sherlock after that outburst of honestly that even he didn't see coming. He stared at the grave stone for minutes, before it occurred to him that maybe Sherlock didn't have anything to say to that.

'This time you've really upset Mummy, you know, and don't you dare trying to deny it. You'll have your money. Just text me later in the day and I'll text you back with the instructions.'

He extracted his umbrella from the ground, shaking it to get rid of the snow. He didn't take a last look at his brother's face, in spite of the uncertainty regarding if and when he would see him again.

oOo

Sherlock got his money, remained hidden for a couple more years (he didn't even really want to know where). All he knew was he went to visit their mother, once.

Mycroft never got his apology. He still wasn't sure whether he truly believed he deserved it or not. He did get a text though, approximately two months before Sherlock reappeared.

'_I did need you.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own Sherlock BBC. The title comes from Elton John's song.

**A/N**: This piece started out as a drabble for the day_by_drabble Midwinter drabblethon on LiveJournal, but soon got too long and turned into a fic. This is my first piece of Sherlock fanfiction, so I hope it's okay. Sherlock's harshness in the dialogue is not bashing on my part at all. The way I see it, he would have every right to be angry with his brother, and Mycroft would feel guilty, hurt and tired, so I tried to write them that way.

In my mind, Mycroft must have helped Sherlock in the process of faking his death, but here I decided to go for another scenario. It is also stated in canon that Sherlock goes to Mycroft for money at some point, so that's why I chose to treat this aspect here. Many thanks to keep_counting for her help and support! Reviews are always helpful and heart-warming for writers, so please leave one, even if it's very short. :) Thanks for reading!


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